


The Weary Night

by Johns_Farthings



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, clandestine meetings, cold and sleepy boys, dark winter months, musings on various things including Edward Little's face, set sometime around episode 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26467903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johns_Farthings/pseuds/Johns_Farthings
Summary: There is a strange power to this dark, an unnatural weight that presses incessantly upon him, as if the night is coating his joints with tar. It intensifies the groan of the ice beyond the hull, the shifting wind that makes his skin prickle even in the safety of the lower decks.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	The Weary Night

**Author's Note:**

> Is it thy will thy image should keep open  
> My heavy eyelids to the weary night? 
> 
> (Sonnet 61)

Jopson understands the necessity of the dark. He knows his job well, and he sees that they are running low on most things, from salt meat and spirits to the thread he uses to darn the Captain’s clothing. The flour is depleted, the cans reducing with every meal. Stores are checked and re-checked with alarming frequency, and amongst these tens and hundreds of items that must be preserved are coal, candles and oil, which become more precious with every freezing day. _Terror_ winters in a constant state of dusk, broken only fleetingly in the places where lamps are most needed.

He is not afraid of the night. He is used to the dimness of ships, to living and working in spaces where light does not reach unless it is fetched. But this winter, more than any of the others, seems as if it will never end. In the summer, when he could snatch a few hours of daylight about his work in the Captain’s cabin, or step, muffled, onto the deck and feel the cold sun on his face, it was bearable. Now, there is nothing. No sunrise or sunset - no light outside, and only a miser’s worth within.

It is exhausting. There is a strange power to this dark, an unnatural weight that presses incessantly upon him, as if the night is coating his joints with tar. It intensifies the groan of the ice beyond the hull, the shifting wind that makes his skin prickle even in the safety of the lower decks. He finds it harder and harder to sleep. The angle of the ship seeps into his dreams and causes him to wake with a start, believing that he is falling, or standing quite alone on the ice. He can put his hands over his ears to keep out the rattle of the wind, he can force himself to think of dull, restful things, but the endless dark has its hold on him, and it keeps him vigilant.

Continually weary, he finds excuses to remain in the places where the lamps are lit, drawn to small pockets of light like a fly around a candle. Though it is not in his nature to shirk his duties, he begins to take longer about them, lingering in the few warm places on the ship where men still gather and letting the soft conversation of whoever is present lap like saltwater around him.

Tonight, polishing silver in a corner of the officer’s mess, he allows his mind to drift to home, the winding streets of London and the weak English sun. It is a yearning that he knows he will not fade when he forces himself to retire, but he cannot help it. He is sick with the winter, with cold and the wind and the sharp, nagging worry about the Captain's whisky, and how little of it there is left. He will take some comfort now, even if it is only in his own imagination.

The silver catches the light, and he thinks of the moon on the windows of Marylebone, glinting and secretive. When he looks up, tilting his head to ease the sore knots in his shoulders, he is startled to find that he is alone in the room, except for Edward Little.

They have been alone together more often this winter. It had begun sporadically, but it is more frequent now – hurried, muffled encounters, ugly fumbles snatched between their duties in the shadows. They find each other amongst the stores, in abandoned berths and the quiet places of the lower decks where it is cold and damp, and few of the remaining men on _Terror_ venture.

These liaisons have, of necessity, taken place in in the dark – even if there was no limit to the amount of oil on _Terror_ , they must meet where they cannot be observed.

Jopson hates it. He hates that he cannot see Little’s face when they meet, that he must find his way about him by touch, with hasty, whispered instructions and pleas. Little is as brisk in their encounters as he is about his duties – in the shadows, he gives nothing away.

Even so, Jopson does not stop meeting him. The ship is falling apart around them, and he is running out of things to hold onto. He clings to Little like a drowning man.

Now, they are alone. The lamps are burning down, but not yet out, and the ship is quiet, apart from the relentless creak of the ice. Jopson’s breath is hot in his throat as he sets down the spoon he had been polishing with a _tik_. Little does not react to the sound. Slowly, Jopson gets to his feet. Want scrabbles between his ribs, making his heart jump. Here, Little will not have the cover of darkness. He will not be able to hide.

It is a risk. The door is closed, but not locked. There are few men on _Terror_ now, but it only takes one to overhear, to see something they should not. Little must know the danger. Yet, he is still here. Waiting, perhaps, for Jopson to stop doing something so futile as polishing silverware when the very ship they stand in is sinking into the ice.

Jopson lets out his breath. He steps around the table.

Little does not look up as Jopson approaches. Though he is upright, straight-backed in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, his head has dropped forward.

He is fast asleep.

Jopson blinks stupidly. For a moment, he thinks he is mistaken - even asleep, Little is uncomfortably tense. His brow is furrowed, his right hand curled into a tight fist where it sits in the crook of his elbow. He has the table to himself, but his legs are tucked under the chair, rather than stretched in front. 

Jopson wants to wake him. The opportunity is as tantalising as sugar, and Little does not look particularly comfortable. He might object at first, but Jopson can convince him otherwise. It will not take much.

He steps closer. _Terror_ sighs, and the lamps flicker. Little shifts in his sleep, and his head tips onto his right shoulder. The light reaches across his face.

Jopson hesitates. So close, he can see the shadows about Little's mouth, the blue veins translucent on his eyelids. The cold has rubbed the tip of his nose pink, and the skin on his cheeks is flaking and sore. He had been on the ice earlier with Blanky, surveying the damage being done to the hull of the ship – Jopson had seen them return, wind-blistered and dripping sleet. He had felt a judder of relief at the sight. There are many dangers on the ice, natural and unnatural. 

The wind growls, but Little does not stir. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, and though his brow his furrowed his mouth is slack, showing the ridge of his teeth below his upper lip.

They are all exhausted. Jopson cannot deny that, and he cannot deny Little a moment of relief by rousing him so abruptly. 

He glances around the empty room. It is late, but not too much so. A compromise beckons - a chance that Little may yet wake of his own accord, if Jopson waits. 

Boards squeak as he pulls one of the chairs out from the table and sits. He sets the cloth he had been using for the silver in front of him. If anyone comes in, he can say that he is cleaning a spot on the table. It is not likely that they will notice he is using the wrong cloth.

He waits. The lamps cast a honey light against the polished wood that reflects onto Little’s face, softens the chapped ridges of his lips and the lines about his eyes. In sleep, his expression has lost some of its elusive melancholy. It is a handsome face, Jopson has thought before now, but not one worn easily. Little keeps himself well-hidden, even in the light.

Jopson is not sure how long he sits, his hand loose against the table as he forgets to make even a pretence of cleaning. He watches the strand of wayward hair that curls softly above Little’s right eyebrow, the tiny shift of his whiskers as he breathes. There is no time, in the creamy glow of the lamps. There is no pack, no whisky, no unceasing night. There is only the two of them, and the soft flicker of light in the gloom. 

Ice cracks. Jopson starts, curling his hand against the smooth table. The lamps have burned lower, but Little has not stirred. Jopson squints, searching for some movement behind Little’s eyelids, something that will show he might wake, but there is nothing.

It is late. Jopson sighs, then he sets his elbows on the table and folds his cloth into a neat triangle. He gets to his feet, returns the chair to its usual place, and pads to the back of the room. Slowly, he packs the spoons away, making sure that they do not clink. He lays the cloth on top of them, then douses two of the lamps. The winter is far from over, and they must save what they have.

At the door, he looks back. The light of the remaining lamps meets the blue of Little’s jacket, tangles in the strands of his hair. Jopson drinks it in, clinging to the fleeting warmth of the image, then he squares his shoulders, turns and steps away, into the dark corridor. 

**Author's Note:**

> The blame for this fic lies mostly with Vegetas, who happened to mention The Terror (2018) on something else I had written, prompting me on an idly curious internet search that became less idle as it led me to this show (thank you for the lingering heartache). Apologies for any historical inaccuracies - this is a little out of my usual time period - but I do love a pairing where the characters barely speak to each other the whole time they are on screen.


End file.
